


Tales of the Four Knights

by Lightbringer34



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Gen, Legends, i always enjoy writing in the mythic style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbringer34/pseuds/Lightbringer34
Summary: The Four Knights of Gwyn are legendary, even past all the Ages of Fire and Dark that have passed. Their beginnings are a story worth knowing.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker & Great Grey Wolf Sif, Artorias the Abysswalker/Lord's Blade Ciaran
Comments: 15
Kudos: 10





	1. The Founding of the Four

You ask for tales of the Four Knights child?

Very well. There are a great many tales of the Knights of Gwyn, for their deeds were mighty, and their names legend.

Ornstein the Lion, Captain of the Knights

Artorias the Wolf, Abysswalker

Hawkeye Gough, Master of the Bow

And Lord’s Blade Ciaran, Master Assassin.

The Knights first arose during the Final Dragon War, at the very dawn of the Age of Fire. Lord Gwyn and the other Lords had finished their initial campaign against the Everlasting Dragons, but they found that even with the might of the Lord Souls, some of the dragons proved too strong or too crafty to best in combat, even with the might of Gods. And these dragons hid themselves away in the corners of the world, unseen and unnoticed by many. So Lord Gwyn turned to his people and decreed: “Let those who are worthy come forth in these times, for we have need of knights to safeguard the weak and protect this new age we have wrought. For we shall search the darkest caves and scour the highest peaks of the archtrees until we find these dragons, and we shall mount their heads as trophies on our walls!”

And the people were heartened, and many came forth, to be trained and clad in the garb of the Silver Knights, defenders of the Gods and the Age of Fire. And together with the Lords, they ventured forth and slew drake and dragon alike, and so the plate and sheen of their armor was known across the land for deeds of valor and courage.

But Seath the Scaleless, Duke of Anor Londo, looked down from his high tower and saw that the knights were weak, and that they had but faced the weakest of the remaining Everlasting Dragons. He saw the beasts the knights had destroyed were but the chaff that blows before the coming of a great storm, so he hurried down to Anor Londo, home of the Gods, straight to the ear of Gwyn.

“Beware my Lord,” said he, “Do not be too confident in your victory, for the most dangerous and most cunning of my kin still remain at large, and they yet seek to destroy you.” At this, Gwyn’s firstborn Son erupted in laughter, and most of the hall followed. “Foolish lizard!” he cried, “All that time in the night air of your tower has addled your senses. We have defeated the Everlasting Dragons, ground them under our heel, never to rise again!” And his warriors, cheered in exultation, along with his friend Havel the Rock, warrior-bishop of the Way of White, for Seath was not much liked among the Court, while Gwyn’s Firstborn was.

But Seath was full of rage and made to storm from the Court, so humiliated was he at the laughter of the Gods. But Gwyn frowned at his son and motioned for quiet, so that a hush spread across the entire sun-drenched hall of Anor Londo. “Silence my son, for though our knights may be brave, and our arms strong, it may be that Seath speaks the truth. How didst thou know of this, O Duke?” And the firstborn was ashamed at his actions and hung his head, while Seath spoke.

“After the first great battle, Lord, I walked among the dead, and saw many of my former brethren lying there. But there were some who were missing. I saw no claw, no scale, no horn of theirs, though I searched for many long hours. And now my Channelers bring me tales from the countryside, small hamlets and villages of devastation and death, where no living thing remains.”

Havel, the warrior-bishop spoke up, clad not in his armor, but a robe of purest white, though his intentions were anything but. Long had the Bishop and the Duke hated each other, though the source of the hatred had been lost to time. “How comest thou by this information, ‘O Duke’ if even our fastest messengers cannot ride to Lordran in a week’s time?”

And Seath smirked at this chance, and gestured to his side. With a flash of light and sound, a score of his servant-magicians appeared before him, and as one, they knelt before Lord Gwyn. There were shouts of astonishment among the courtiers, and even Gwyn was taken aback by the sight. Seath smiled then and gestured to his Channelers, who stood and vanished again. “Fear not, Gods of Lordran, for these sorcerers serve me, and through me, Lord Gwyn, whose light shines above us all. Thus I have named them Channelers, for they shall channel the will of Gwyn to all the peoples of the land.”

Gwyn was pleased with this declaration, and Seath’s generous gift of this newfound power to his ranks, though Havel still eyed the Duke with great dislike. However, the Lord of Sunlight ordered the Court adjourned, save his trusted council, for he now took Seath’s warning to heart and was troubled by its meaning.

Among those remaining were Bishop Havel, Duke Seath, the Witch of Izalith, and Gwyn’s Firstborn Son. Lord Nito alone was absent from the Three Great Lords, as he dwelled within the Tomb of the Giants and cared not for the Living.

Seath looked irritated at this last addition, and questioned the Witch of Izalith, who had ever been cordial to him. “O Lady of the Flame, why does Gwyn bring his son to a war council? Is he not still a child, godling though he may be?” The Witch, mostly hidden beneath her modest robes, nodded in agreement. “Gwyn does dote on his children so, but the child does show aptitude in strategy and strength of arms. Already the people, and those beloved of him have named him the God of War. Let us retain our judgment for now, though his association with Bishop Havel may not be to your liking.”

Seath snorted at the thought, but held his tongue. The counsel session was brief, but to the point, with the pomp of the Court absent. Seath quickly listed the Everlasting Dragons still at large, and though mighty the Council was, all were unnerved at those named.

Glaurung the Deceiver, whose talons were as long as a man and as sharp as a spearpoint

Ladon, Father of Hydras, the Hundred Headed

Ormr the Iron Scaled, ancient even among the Everlasting, and one of the First Things

Pythos the Rotten, so corrupted to be immune even to Nito’s Blight

Shemal the Great, Mother to a Thousand and mate to Ormr, vast beyond imagining

Tenis the Clever, who was never seen by godly eyes, but who left the remains of his grisly work behind.

And Kalameet the Black, the Three-Eyed, feared above all others.

These were the remaining dragons who, save Seath, were now all marked for death by the Council. At this, the Firstborn leapt from his seat in great excitement, drawing his sword.

“Let me go father! I shall bring the best knights with me and we shall destroy them and mount their heads in the trophy room, as you proclaimed so long ago!” But Gwyn’s smile was one of regret not approval. ‘Alas my son, I cannot let you do such a thing. You are young, and full of the pride of youth. Imagine if you were struck down. What would your siblings, your mother do? What would I do, in my grief? And who would the people of Anor Londo follow after I am gone? Gwynnivere? I think not. In this, I shall deny you.” And his son’s face fell in dismay, for he had been reprimanded by his father now twice in the span of but a few hours.

“Though,” mused the Lord of Sunlight, “Your idea does have some merit. We will need a special group of knights to help us hunt these dragons.”

The Firstborn brightened, and his mind began to churn. Seath did as well, for he could recognize intelligence when he saw it, and the mind of Gwyn’s son was nevertheless a keen one.

“They shall have to be a small group, Father. No grand formations and flying banners.” He turned to Seath. “If these dragons are as crafty as you state, Duke Seath, they will be long gone before we arrive.”

Seath nodded. The child’s enthusiasm was infectious. Now everyone in the room was beginning to consider the possibilities.

Gwyn tapped the arm of his throne, deep in thought. “What qualities would you all recommend these knights possess? Think deeply on this. They must represent the peak of Anor Londo’s ability, the strength of this Age of Fire. They cannot be found lacking.”

There was silence for a while, and then each began to speak.

The Witch-“They must be creative and diverse in battle, for who knows what calamity may arise?”

Seath-“They must be intelligent, to discern where my brethren have hidden themselves.”

Havel-“They must be loyal to lord Gwyn above all else, lest some minor kingdom attempt to enlist their services ‘gainst another.”

The Firstborn-“And above all else, Father, they must be strong. For the Everlasting Dragons did not rule the Earth through treachery alone. We must have the strongest of all the Silver Knights if we are to have any chance at victory.”

At this, one of the remaining Silver Knights stepped forward and knelt. “My Lords, I realize it may be above my position to speak in such great company, but I have been acclaimed as the best spearman among all the Silver Knights. In sparring matches, there is no one who can match me in that skill. I am light on my feet and can cover wide ground in one leap. I submit my skills and myself to your appraisal. I only ask to know the number of our company so that I may begin to seek out worthy companions.”

The Council was greatly astonished and indeed both Seath and Havel were slightly angered at this knight’s arrogance, intruding as he did onto a council of the Gods.

But Gwyn laughed and motioned for the knight to rise. The Witch and the Firstborn smiled also, for they recognized the peril this young knight had placed himself in. “I commend you for your bravery, my son. Remove your helmet so we may see thine face.”

The knight did so, revealing a young face with set, determined eyes. His long red hair had been trimmed into a ponytail to fit into his helmet, but it still caught the eye.

“I am Knight Ornstein, My Lords. If you intend to hunt down these dragons posthaste, I shall scour the Silver Knights for suitable candidates. I only ask what is to be the number of our company.”

Gwyn nodded. “Four is a pleasing number to my mind. If no one has any objections?”

There were none.

Gwyn stood, his regal bearing and height in full display as the Lord of Sunlight.

“So be it. Seek out your comrades so that we may ride posthaste. Go forth Knight Ornstein, Captain of the Four Knights of Gwyn!”


	2. Ladon, Father of Hydras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ornstein ponders the qualities of a Knight and the Father of Hydras is encountered.

As he left the throne room, Knight Ornstein thought of the Everlasting Dragons. Their four wings carried them into the sky with vast gales of wind, their fire set the cloaks of his Knights aflame, and as their numbers dwindled, the remaining dragons had become cunning in their survival.

As he strode out into the causeways of Anor Londo, Knight Ornstein thought of his Silver Knights. Their lightning struck down the dragons, but only in vast numbers, their armor held against the flames of the dragons, but only for so long, and their minds were keen, but only the way Men were keen. He was the best of the Silver Knights with a spear and if the beasts were brought down, his lightning and his spear would end their eternal lives. But his companions would not be found amidst the Silver Knights alone.

The vast city of Anor Londo was still under construction, so new was Gwyn’s Age of Fire, and Knight Ornstein wandered the scaffolding in thought.

Three times, he circled the city, and three times did he reject candidates in his mind, for though Knight Ostros was clever, and Knight Galatea was strong, there was some quality they still lacked. Knight Ornstein circled the Holy City a fourth time as the sun began to set and pondered the nature of Knights.

The workers of Anor Londo, Giants and humans alike, were diligent and worthy, but even they had grown tired in their labors. The Moon called them to their beds, and the arms of their wives, and so they departed in haste. However, one Giant, clumsy as they are known to be, nudged a pile of stone just a bit too far and it began to fall.

The Dark Sun Gwyndolyn, herald of the Moon, had risen with their celestial patron, and was anxious to attend to their duties. Such was their devotion and such was their hurry that they did not notice the rubble falling from above until it was nearly too late. Knight Orenstein stared in horror and made to leap down to help the Dark Sun, but the distance was far indeed. As he fell, Ornstein looked down upon the helpless Dark Sun and prayed for a miracle.

As the Gods are good and Men are brave, one strode forth to answer Ornstein's prayer, unlooked for and heretofore unseen. One of the Knights of Berenike, vast of form and strong of arm, braced themselves between the Dark Sun and the rubble with both shield and body. As the stone struck his shield and armor, the clamor was such that many citizens rose from their suppers, wondering why the great bells of Anor Londo should toll so, but they were mistaken.

As Knight Ornstein landed upon the causeway he briefly despaired, for the stone had buried both the valiant knight and the Dark Sun he had protected. However, there was a great heave and a whisper of magic and the stone parted around the pair with no more resistance than a feather in the wind. Ornstein was amazed and more than a little ashamed of his failure to guard one who was both son and daughter to Lord Gwyn, who looked upon their savior with approval.

“Tell me your name human,” commanded Gwyndolyn, “so that I may grant you a boon in the name of the Moon which has watched over me all my life. You have saved one of the Gods this day and the Dark Sun would see you commended for it.”

But the armored knight only rubbed his arm and held out a hand in refusal. “My apologies Dark Sun,” said the Knight, “but I cannot accept a boon from one as High as you when the Silver Knights themselves have turned me away. Their arms are long, as mine are, and they work in formation, as my Knights do, but their spears and my greatsword have proven a poor match.”

“A poor match for their purposes” said Ornstein, approaching to kneel at the Dark Sun’s feet, who bade him to rise with a quirk of their lips. “But not for mine, I should think.”

He planted his feet and spun his spear, for Knight Ornstein was much given to dramatic gestures. “Honorable Knight, whose shield has protected the innocent from the vicissitudes of Fate, I would name you to be one of the Four Knights of Gwyn, if thou art willing.”

“What new brotherhood has my Father put forth?” enquired Gwyndolyn, for the hours of the Moon and the Sun met only rarely in the heavens and the earth.

Knight Ornstein explained the difficulties of the Everlasting Dragons, the Task Lord Gwyn had set him and all were pleased. As Orenstien told the tale, the Berenike Knight removed his helm to reveal a head brown of hair, and worn with smiles, for he was a man who laughed easily and often.

If the Dark Sun’s features were ethereal, and Knight Ornstein's the haughty pride of a Knight, then the Berenike’s features were the plain and pleasing sort found across the land. As Orenstien’s tale wound to a close, he enquired further of the stranger and the man began his own.

He was Artorias, born a second son in the land of Berenike, and had joined that noble company of heavy Knights in hopes of seeking glory. When he had heard of Lord Gwyn’s call for more to join the Silver Knights, he had made his way to Anor Londo.

Always, his goal had been to serve and protect and at this Ornstein was much pleased, for though he could name a score of more of Silver Knights strong of arm and keen of eye, few possessed the strength of character Knight Artorias held close. If he was to build a brotherhood of Knights numbering but four, they must have not just the strength of the Sun, but the kindness of the Moon as well.

He once again asked Artorias to join such a brotherhood and again the Knight denied him, saying his humbling necessitated a swift return to his people, no matter what aid he rendered along the way. But the Dark Sun bade him kneel and placed their snow-white hands upon Artorias’s brow in benediction.

“Thou art a protector true, Knight Artorias, and your kind heart does your kingdom credit. But the light of the Moon sees far and wide and even now, Ladon, Father of the Hydras, encroached upon the Kingdom of the Gods. I bid you, in the name of the Dark Sun Gwyndolyn, and my father, the Lord of Sunlight, to protect this kingdom while he sleeps, as I do. I bestow upon you the blessing of the Moon, and the creatures who walk in her light.”

Saying this, the God reached up into the sky and grasped the Moon itself, with its wide, rounded body, and removed but a portion of its majesty. With slender fingers, she molded the Moon’s light, compressing and shaping it until it was a silver ring small enough to fit upon Artorias’s finger. Upon it sat the sigil of the Wolf, the creature fierce in battle, but mindful of its pack, and they handed it to Artorias with another smile. “Now go forth, Knight Artorias, Shieldbearer, in this Hour of the Wolf, and slay that which is displeasing to my sight!”

Accepting the gift, Knight Artorias bowed his head and together with Knight Ornstein, they departed in search of the Father of Hydras. Thus did the Moon gain its phases, Artorias his ring, and Ornstein his second Knight.

___________________________________

As it happened, they did not need to travel far, for the words of Gwyndolyn guided them down moonlit paths, below the city of the Gods and into its Garden, Darkroot.

At night, the gardeners and guardians alike slept, and Ladon, the Father of Hydras had stolen through the great waters that led to Oolacile, the kingdom of magic and light, seeking to destroy that which the Gods found beautiful. He had one hundred heads from which to glare and one hundred mouths from which to spit water, but not a claw among them, for Ladon had dwelt so long in the waters of the world that his Everlasting nature had changed to favor the seas instead of the misty air. His size was vast indeed and though Artorias and Ornstein could see his hundred heads above the treetops, though they searched and searched, they could not find their way through

Ornstein tore at his hair and gnashed his teeth, for his spear longed for the throats of the Hydra and it was much like its master in this desire. At his distress there came a soft cackle and with a glimmer of magic, there appeared Alvina of the Darkroot Wood. A cat she was, and yet unlike the cats you or I might know, for cats are always haughty in their temperament, but small in form. Alvina was the size of a man and her long grey fur made her seem larger still as her cackle echoed around the Knights. “Oh, what fools we have! What wretched fools we have here, who have wandered into my wood on such a night!”

The Knights drew their weapons for though Alvina herself was not a threat, her brothers and sisters were larger still, the size of a house, and possessed of great fury. The two cats set upon the Knights and a great battle ensued as the Knights protested.

“Wise Alvina,” protested Artorias, sheltering behind his shield as Alvina's cousin crashed into it with great force, “we only wish to pass through your domain, for Ladon, Father of Hydras, even now seeks to destroy what the Gods have planted here.”

“We have been commanded to do so by Lord Gwyn and his Court, by the Dark Sun and their Kindness,” added Orenstien as he leaped into the trees to escape a fanged mouth. At this, the great cats paused and looked to Alvina, who purred in thought.

“Many a kindness has Gwyndolyn done for me and mine as we dwelled in the shadows of this forest. Though this Garden has been entrusted to me by the Grace of the Gods and the strength of my sisters and brothers, I shall let you pass this once, Knights of Gwyn. For I can hear the crying of the trees and the pleas of the Mushroom Clans as they flee from Ladon’s hundred heads, and we have not the strength to challenge them.”

At this, the Knights were unsettled, for the Mushroom Clans were few, but their warriors mighty indeed. Nontheless, they bowed to Alvina and at her command, the trees parted to reveal the path downward to Ladon.

As they departed Alvina smiled her wide, toothy smile and settled in to watch, as all cats watch, with amusement and curiosity, the deeds of Men. Their kind lurk still within the Darkroot and though their descendants have much diminished in size, the cats have never forgotten that their might once stymied the Knights of Gwyn

____________________________

Ladon’s hundred heads were mighty, but the darkness of night hid the armor of Gwyn’s Knights for many miles as they strode down the path, and they passed many Mushrooms, merchants, and mortals fleeing the wrath of the Everlasting Dragon. He had shattered the ships in the harbor, scattered their crews, and carved great furrows in the earth with his rage, calling out for Gwyn to face him. But Gwyn and his Firstborn slept deeply that night and Gwyndolin sat upon their throne and pondered the defense of their father’s kingdom, by blade and by spell.

At last, Orenstien’s golden armor caught the eye of the Hydra and his hundred heads peered closer at these new arrivals, who advanced while others fled. “What foolishness is this!” he laughed, and some heads grinned and othered sneered in disdain. “Does Lord Gwyn and his feeble children think I, Ladon, Father of Hydras, can be bested by two mortals? We have been weakened, true, but we remain Everlasting, even in this Age of Fire!”

With that, he spat water at the Knights from fifty mouths and crashed upon them with fifty more fangs. Orenstien took cover behind Artorias’s mighty shield and as the Knight endured the onslaught, they discussed their strategy. With sword and spear, with shield and lightning, they could end him, but the Hydra’s necks were long and at this distance, none could reach him.

“I could leap high,” suggested Ornstein, “and call upon my lightning to threaten the water he dwells in.”

“But you would be cast down,” said Artorias. “I could rush him, trusting in the strength of my shield to reach his body.”

“The same fate would befall you, brother,” said Ornstein with some regret. “Perhaps both actions together could achieve what one alone cannot.”

In this there was some sense, and Artorias agreed swiftly as his arm tired, for though he was mighty, the Hydra’s weight was great indeed.

With one mighty shout, the Knights sallied forth, oaths of loyalty and bravery on their lips. Artorias charged forward, but his arm had weakened and his shield was soon cast aside by a torrent of water from fifty mouths. Heedless of the loss, he strode on, both hands now clasping his greatsword in shaking fingers.

Ornstein leaped high into the air and called upon the Lightning Lord Gwyn had bestowed upon him, which crackled around the Captain in its eagerness. Fifty of Ladon’s heads sought him out, but Orenstien was swift, leaping upon the very heads that charged and driving his spear into each one with a shout of triumph. His lightning ran down the necks and into the water as the Hydra convulsed in pain.

Below, that pain gave Artorias the opening he had desired and the Wolf charged into the shallows, heedless of the lightning’s caress and cleaved necks from their body with each stroke of his sword. 

The battle lasted two hours and at the end, Ladon’s heads had dwindled from one hundred to a mere four, all of which hissed at the Knights in fear, pain, and disgust. “Gwyn’s cruelty known no bounds,” they spat, tongue hissing with the lie. “If he seeks to slay me even as I seek vengeance for my fallen brothers.”

“No less than we seek justice for our own,” replied Artorias, gesturing at the ruined docks and the lost livelihoods. “If you had made peace with Lord Gwyn, as your cousin Seath has done, you could live your life out in peace, as a creature of the Deep Oceans.”

But Ladon smiled a fanged smile and Ornstein readied his spear once more, in preparation for one last desperate attack. “I curse your peace as I curse you, Knights of Gwyn,” said the Everlasting Dragon. “I curse your peace with every one of my hundred heads and I swear that while but a single one of my sons live, there shall be no peace along the coasts and waterways of the world.”

At this, the Knights cleaved his last heads in twain, but the curse had been spoken, for each one of the hundred heads began to twist and writhe along the shoreline. Flesh began to sprout from the stumps even as the Dragon’s body disappeared into soulstuff and soon there were one hundred hydras where there had once been but one.

The Knights fought on and though they killed many of Ladon’s children, some managed to swim out into the waterways and deep places of the world, where they dwell still, nursing a grudge against all sailors and seamen of Gwyn’s kingdom. However, the great threat of the Father of Hydras was ended and the Knights of Gwyn retired to a well-deserved rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these following chapters aren't going to be quite as concise or as "fairy tale" as the first, because it's been years since I last wrote in this style, but it should be worth the read. Some compromises will be made so the action can be followed, but these remain stories and thus subject to artistic license. 
> 
> In the grand tradition of all stories, they will also function somewhat as creation/explanation myths as well, explaining portions of the world that were a mystery to most. 
> 
> Also, I believe Gwyndolyn is a trans character but because the lore doesn't indicate whether they prefer to be addressed as a man or a woman, I defaulted to the gender-neutral "they". Trans characters are also common in myths and many are Gods of some sort, beyond the normal mortal boundaries of Man/Woman. There's a fascinating history of their portrayal across many different cultures, usually in a positive manner and I hope my portrayal of Gwyndolyn comes across as respectful.


	3. Glaurung the Deceiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Knights of Gwyn forge new armor and encounter the Giants

The Knights of Gwyn had defeated Ladon, the Father of Hydras, and they gained great acclaim among the courts of both the Sun and Moon for such a deed. The Firstborn directed many of his warriors to their banner, but against Orenstien’s judgement and Artorias’s strength, they were found wanting. However, Gwyndolyn, clever and compassionate in equal measure, appealed to their brother for a Brotherhood of the Moon, to watch over the Kingdom while all slept in well-deserved slumber. The destruction left by Ladon leant weight to his claim and at his children’s urging, Gwyn established the Darkmoon Knights for such a purpose. Thus, many of the aspirants turned away from the Knights of Gwyn instead found their way to the Darkmoon Knights and the Kingdom continued to prosper under the light of both the Sun and Moon.

However, all was not well in Anor Londo, for the battle against Ladon had ruined Artorias’s shield and the hydra’s claws had left great rents in his steel armor. For this, Orenstien directed him to the Blacksmith Deity, whose name has been lost to time and memory thanks to the Firstborn’s foolishness. But that is a story for another day.

The Knights found the Blacksmith hard at work in his vast forge, covered in soot and shaping the molten metal with his bare hands into shapes most pleasing to the Gods. He forged their armor, their crowns, and their weapons alike and his skill was widely acknowledged throughout the land. Gwyn had offered him the hand of his daughter Gwynevere in marriage for his aid in the First Wars, but the Blacksmith loved only his craft and his metals and had no use for the softness of women or the warmth of their bosoms and so Gwynevere remained unwed.

“Well met ---------,” said Ornstein in greeting. “How goes the forging today?”

“Well enough,” answered the Blacksmith. “I have been commissioned by the Gravelord to craft swords for his followers, but the task is easy enough with how few there are and soon I shall need a new project.”

At this the Captain grinned a Lion’s grin and presented the ruined Artorias, still clad in his damaged armor and much embarrassed. “I have such a project for you My Lord, for my brother here proved himself in battle against Ladon, and his armor and weapons have suffered for it. If we are to prosecute this campaign against the last of the Everlasting Dragons, we shall need your assistance and arms.”

The Blacksmith nodded and he rose from his force to circle the Wolf Knight in silence. Three times did he circle Artorias, each time reaching out to touch a rent in steel or a dent from mighty jaws. Finally he returned to stand before them and leaned down to search Artorias’s face. Evidently he found what he’d been seeking, for the Blacksmith smiled a crooked smile and set to the bellows with enthusiasm. “Your stance is strong and your eyes are kind, Knight Artorias,” he said. “And your arms tell me of strength and protection, so for you I shall craft you a greatshield and a sword of mighty provenance, such that the Everlasting Dragons and all lesser beasts shall quail before it.”

The Knights of Gwyn were much pleased and at the Blacksmith’s instruction, they sprang to his aid. The brought him great handfuls of rare metals and stood watch over vast fires as the days passed in pleasing work. As they did so, Artorias adopted fully the title of Wolf Knight and the Blacksmith worked such designs into the metal and helm of his armor so all would know him on sight. Meanwhile, Ornstein again pondered the nature of Knights and the nature of Dragons as a thought formed in his mind.

“Tell me, O Blacksmith God,” he said. “We still find ourselves lacking two members of our fine company and though I have searched and searched, the best of the Silver Knights, the Sunlight Warriors, and the Darkmoons have not met my standards. Your metals are famously pure and strong, as I would shape my Knights, so I would welcome your counsel.”

The Blacksmith was silent for a time and then he spoke. “I am not wise in the ways of brotherhood, Captain Ornstein, but it seems forging a sword and forging Knights have much in common. They must be strong, as you say, able to bear the greatest stresses of battle but retain a keen edge. You hunt Everlasting Dragons, so they must be exceptional, as you say. However, you are not looking in exceptional places for your Knights. You are searching the sort of places you expect to find Knights, the rolls of honor and the halls of Gods. However, when I must craft a special sword, I seek out unusual metals in unusual places. You must do the same. Seek out unusual people, with unusual qualities, and you will find those needed for your Knights."

Ornstein nodded and wiped his brow, for the heat of the forge was great indeed. “Thank you for your counsel and armor, My Lord. Both are deeply appreciated.”

At this the Blacksmith God laughed, a deep booming thing of great mirth and clapped his great weathered hands together. “Always so formal Captain Ornstein, even in your gratitude! When you find the rest of your Knights, bring them to me and I shall forge them weapons that will make even the Black Dragon think twice about crossing you.”

At this, Artorias stepped forth, clad in silver and helmed in blue. His horsehair plume hung behind his hooded blue helm, that let his kind eyes shine out upon the world while Orenstien’s own visage was hidden behind a lion’s snarl. His silver shoulders and arms were adorned in swirling symbols of bravery and protection while a blue cape fell from his shoulders to brush the ground. Even Ornstein, who had seen the Blacksmith’s work before, was struck by its sleek beauty and together, the two Knights, one silver and one gold, departed in search of their next companion.

________________________

At Gwyn’s behest, the Knights departed Anor Londo and searched far and wide across many kingdoms from Boletaria to Astora, from Catarina to Carim. Though they met many interesting people and righted many wrongs, they found no one who would have been a good fit for their brotherhood. Despairing, the Knights moved along the great causeway back to Anor Londo and taking solace in the sight of the Sea beyond. So magnificent was the sight, they did not see the creature which swooped down from the clouds and snatched Artorias away in massive talons.

At once, Ornstein gave a great cry and sprang aloft, but the creature soon reached a height even the Lion Knight’s pounces could not approach and with a curse, he urged his horse into pursuit. Artorias sought to draw his greatsword from his back, but the massive talons clutched him too tight. Likewise, the talons sought to crush him or rip him asunder, but the Blacksmith God’s work held firm with barely a complaint from the metal or the Knight beneath it.

“Who dares assault one of Gwyn’s Knights, and for what purpose?” demanded Artorias, indignant at his capture and slightly afraid of the vast distance below him.

“Glaurung the Deceiver,” answered the Everlasting Dragon, for it was he. “I must commend your blacksmith, for though my talons are as long as a man and as sharp as a spearpoint, they have not pierced your metal hide.”

“Face me in battle then,” said Artorias, “and we shall test it further still. My new blade has not tasted the blood of one of your kind and I imagine its consecration will be sweet indeed.”

Glaurung opened its claws and Artorias clung to the vast beast as his sword fell away towards the open sea far below. “You speak boldly for one so wholly within my clutches,” said the dragon, “But I will not let Ladon’s fate be my own. No, I shall not meet you in battle, not when my name of Deceiver is well-earned.”

“And how was it earned, pray tell?” asked Artorias as his mind raced. Far in the air, his strength and armor meant nothing, and he needed something to dissuade the Everlasting Dragon from casting him to the ground in ruin. At the same time, he had not served as a Silver Knight and was not steeped in the history of the Everlasting Dragons. If the Dragons were as prideful as the rumors had said, he could buy time for Orenstien to think of something.

His captor preened and uttered a Word of Power as the sunset around them bent and sparkled. Soon enough, both Dragon and captive were entirely transparent as they flew through the sky. “I am called Deceiver because I am the only Everlasting Dragon to master the art of Stealth,” he boasted. “The others thought themselves immortal and invulnerable until your King’s lightning and the Giant’s arrows proved them wrong. Because of my cleverness and my skill in Stealth, I have outlasted them all, just as I will outlast you. Let us fly onwards, little Knight, for I suspect I can fly far longer than you can hold on.” With that, the Everlasting Dragon swooped down into a dive towards the ocean far below as Artorias allowed a scream to pass his lips.

Far below, Ornstein snarled as the Everlasting Dragon in his sight began to shimmer and disappear from sight, though he soon heard his brother’s scream clearly enough from the causeway. But the dragon was heading out over the open sea, where Orenstien could not follow so he rode on in search of even the merest fishing boat he could use to rescue his friend.

But Gwyn smiled upon him for he soon came upon a vast dock and an even vaster ship fastened to it, crewed by Giants. The strength and stamina of the Giant race, as well as their single-mindedness had been a valuable service in crafting Anor Londo, and now their King had arrived in Lordran to look upon the labor of his workers.

The Giants towered above Orenstien, nearly three times his size, strong of limb and grim of visage, but the Captain of the Knights was heedless of the danger. His golden form was soon surrounded by massive forms hefting everything from massive stone swords to wooden greatbows carved from archtrees, but at a word from beyond the crowd they parted silently. Ornstein saw the King of the Giants, no less mighty or majestic than Lord Gwyn and he knelt in respect.

“Honorable Lord of the Giants,” he breathed through gasps, for he had ridden hard indeed. “I am Captain Ornstein of Gwyn’s Four Knights and I beg your assistance in battle. My comrade has been stolen by Glaurung the Deciever, who even now flies above the ocean, and if Artorias is not aided, the Dragon will turn his attention to you.”

The King of the Giants, whose golden crown weighed mightily on his stone head, turned and looked at the soldiers and diplomats of his delegation. “Long have the Everlasting Dragons pillaged our lands just as they have yours. Just as we fought alongside Lord Gwyn in the First War, so I shall aid you now.”

Ornstein's heart leapt in his chest and he was gladdened by the King’s generosity. But the King held up one long hand to forestall his mirth. “However, the day grows late, and we must make haste to Anor Londo, for the road is long even for Giants. Choose three of my Giants for your hunt and choose swiftly. Now, away!”

The Captain of the Knights lept into the rigging of the ship and searched the craggy faces of the Giants, so different from his own. He needed Giants keen of eye to spot Glaurung and steady of mind to shoot him down. His first choice was a spear-thrower, Oghrim, and his second a battle mage, Drond. Before he could make his third choice, a young Giant stepped forward, archtree bow in hand. “Honorable Knight, my name is Gough. Your choices are wise if you wish to bring down the Dragon, but I must join you if you wish to rescue your friend.”

“And why is that?” asked Ornstein, short on patience as his friend’s shouts echoed across the water. “What can you do, that these Giants cannot?”

At this, the Giant grinned. “Long have I listened and long have I watched, in contemplation of the world, and much have I learned. I may be young, but my King sought me for counsel as much as my skill with a bow. Only with wisdom and skill can you best the Deceiver, he who shrouds himself in lies and Stealth.”

Ornstein was impressed and bade the giant to follow in his stead. As the rest of the Giants departed, they strode out onto the Causeway in search of the invisible Dragon.

First, Ornstein called upon his lightning, sending lines of light across the sky in desperate fury, but hit nothing.

Second, Oghrim paused and listened for the beat of great wings, launching vast harpoons into the sky, but hit nothing.

Third, Drond felt for the outline of the Dragon’s magic, where the song of the world was bent and unleashed his spells, but hit nothing.

Finally, Gough nocked an arrow. He did not listen for the beating of great wings, and he could not hear the song, so he thought. His mind swept outwards over the sea and under the sky until all the ocean was Gough and Gough was all the ocean. He closed his eyes and smiled still as he drew his bow until the archwood creaked with the strain. He released the arrow with a prayer, so that it flew straight and true. The lies of the Deceiver’s Stealth meant nothing to the arrow and both magic and hide parted as the arrow buried itself deep in the chest.

Glaurung roared in pain and spread his wings as his fall became a dive. Gritting his teeth, Artorias began to climb, ignoring the black blood that fountained from the wound. Far below Gough whistled as the Everlasting Dragon sped towards them, mouth already raining fire upon the Causeway.

The spearthrower Oghrim fell while the sorcerer Drond raised a magical shield to protect the archer, even as they felt the flame lick at the stones around their feet. “Shoot him again!” shouted Orenstien whose red hair had caught fire while Gough made a disappointed noise.

“I’m afraid I am out of arrows, Knight Ornstein, for the fire has burned my wooden shifts to ash. I have but my bow, which is ill-suited for the task alone.”

“But you are not alone,” said the Captain, planting his feet and brandishing his spear. “You are with me, and I would name you a Knight of Gwyn!”

The Giants were much impressed, but Gough cast about in vain, heedless of the title. He used the last of Oghrim’s spears, but they were not built for a bow and so fell far short of their mark. With a growl, Ornstein clambered up to the Giant’s shoulder and held his spear tight. “If you are truly starved of arrows, Hawkeye Gough, then fire me at the last, so that I might join my friend in death!”

Gough stared in confusion, but Ornstein would not be denied. The Captain stood straight as his feet met the bowstring and tall as his spear pointed forward towards the charging dragon now almost upon them. Gough drew back the string and fired as Ornstein the Lion was loosed like a bolt of lightning from the hand of Lord Gwyn himself.

It is said that of all the many arrows Hawkeye Gough fired throughout his time as a Knight of Gwyn and as a Dragonslayer, despite the many arrows forged for him by Giants and Blacksmith Gods alike, he never fired a more lethal shot than Captain Ornstein.

Artorias had reached Glaurung’s head and had begun punching the Everlasting Dragon in the eye when the beast’s maw was split asunder by a line of crackling lightning and metal. Great was his shock when his brother emerged from the ruined Dragon’s throat and gave him a lazy salute, greater still when the dragon still managed to speak.

“Cursed Knights of Gwyn,” gurgled Glaurung the Deciever, as they fell towards the causeway. “I foresee you shall be a bane upon dragonkind, but your fates are already known to me and I find them pleasing. So instead, I shall curse the race of the one who has truly killed me. Gough the Giant, as keen of eye as you may be, hear me now!”

The Everlasting Dragon slammed into the stone foundation of the causeway with a terrible crash that threw both Knights into the water, but the Giants looked down at Glaurung with trepidation. The Deciever spat foul blood into the water and spoke its last.

“Giants of the East, keen of eye you may be, but I curse you with my blood and death. I curse you with the sea you have crossed and I curse you with the eyes that have killed me. No longer shall you have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or a nose to smell. I curse your race to be faceless, devoid of form and fairness, forever more. With this, I am content.”

The dragon laughed even as he breathed his last and across the land and across the sea, the Giants cried out as one. Their eyes were gone, but they could still see. Their ears were gone, but they could still hear. Their noses were gone, but they could still smell. The stone of their heads remained unchanged, but each Giant, from the mighty King, to the lowliest peasant girl, now shared the same face. A black, featureless void was their only feature and would be forever more. At their passing, children cried out and animals reared in fear and there was much fear to be found among the Giants themselves. Soon enough they began fashioning helmets or hoods for themselves, for many wished to hide their faces, especially those who had once been beautiful. Thus did the race of Giants lose their faces and relations between Lordran and the far East change forever more.

For his act of slaying Glaurung the Deceiver, Gough was banished from the Land of the Giants, but Lord Gwyn welcomed him with honor in the very halls of Anor Londo.

“Wise is the warrior who can see beyond his eyes and tragic is the tale that has brought you to my hall,” said Gwyn. “Would that we meet in better days, but my offer shall remain the same. I would name you Dragonslayer, an honor only my son and Captain Ornstein have gained, and I would name you to the Knights of Gwyn, a proud champion of your race.”

Gough bowed his head even though he was many times the size of the Lord of Sunlight and then bade him offer his hand, into which he placed a medallion carved from the very core of an archtree by the God’s own hand. “Take this and go in good fortune Gough of the Giants, no matter your choice. If you ever have need of land, lordship, or gold, I shall grant it freely and count the cost worth your friendship.”

Tears flowed from the Giant’s featureless face and he rumbled his thanks in a deep baritone. “I have only ever been a servant of my King and sought to aid the most I could with my words or with my bow. Now I am cast adrift for the curse I have brought upon my race and yet you still seek my services. As I consider your offer, I would continue to serve alongside Captain Ornstein and Knight Artorias as a Knight of Gwyn. If I am to be known as a Dragonslayer, then a Dragonslayer I shall be for good or ill.”

Much of the court cheered at this declaration, for though the Giant’s Curse had been cruel, so too was Gough beloved for slaying one of the Everlasting and remaining humble despite the great deed. However, just as many looked down upon the Giants as a brutish, clumsy, and stupid race, and thought them lesser creatures unfit to bask in Gwyn’s light so they remained silent. Others whispered that twice now the Everlasting Dragons had cursed the Age of Fire with their dying breaths and that perhaps the Knights of Gwyn merely invited further disaster with each dragon they slew. But Captain Ornstein pounded the haft of his spear upon the floor, silencing all opposition, though his helmet shared his glare. “Today is to be a day of celebration, of welcome for our new brother-in-arms,” he proclaimed. “Now, let us feast and make merry, in hopes peace will soon be upon us!”

The Firstborn and Princess Gwynevere cheered mightily and led the way into the dining hall, where the Knights and the Court dwelled, for a time, in the sunlit corridors of Anor Londo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one's a little more action-y than the previous chapter and thus a little less storybook style, but the image of Gough launching Orenstien at a dragon was too good to pass up. I also think it's very interesting how we never see the faces of the Giants in DS1 and when we see them in DS 2 they have those black hole faces, so I came up with Glaurung's curse to make them hide their faces. There's also the discrepancy where in DS1 Giants are flesh and blood while in DS 2 they're stone and trees, but I figure the passing of an Age can safely explain that.
> 
> We also get to see a little of the Unnamed Blacksmith God, whose death caused the titanite demons to scatter to the far corners of the world. Because these are fairy tales, I still like the idea that there are things missing because the Firstborn lost the Annals of History, even though we all know what actually got him un-personed. It's still a bit of a problem for the storytellers of the Dark Souls world, so there is much lamenting among the minstrels and jesters of courts at the loss. Even though this is only supposed to cover the 4 Knights, I might make a series of other myths to flesh things out. No promises though.
> 
> I'm sure you can all guess who shows up next chapter.  
> BTW: I imagined this dragon's name pronounced "Gl-ow!-rung" but come up with whatever suits your ear, in the vein of all storytellers.


	4. Pythos the Rotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Knights of Gwyn try to halt the spread of Everlasting curses, but one happens to be in the cursed city of Carim, which has plenty of surprises of its own.

The Knights of Gwyn, who now numbered three, continued the Last Dragon War from the mighty citadels of Anor Londo. They had won two great victories, but the curses of dragons had brought them two defeats as well. Lord Gwyn was pleased with their progress, but the Court was not.

When Ornstein travelled down to Izalith, the city of the Witch, her daughters, and the fire mages, he was denied entry. Where the Knights went, so too did the Everlasting Dragons, and so great was the fear of a further curse that even the Captain of Gwyn’s Knights was turned away.

When Artorias travelled down still further to the Tomb of the Giants, the mausoleum of the dead, he was denied entry. Though Gravelord Nito feared no curse, he did not abide the living in his still and quiet realm, save his servants, and so came forth to meet the Wolf Knight under the shroud of night.

“Much have I heard of your deeds from the dead,” rasped the Gravelord, all shadow and bone as he clambered from an open grave. “ **Much have I heard of your triumphs and your failures from those towns the Everlasting Dragons even now set alight in their fury. They are keeping my Gravetenders busy and for that I thank you.** ”

Artorias bowed and clutched his shield tighter, for although the Gravelord was not much loved, he was respected and acknowledged by even the other Great Lords, for his domain was death. Artorias spoke with the one Lord even mighty Gwyn would one day bow to and knew himself the lesser. “If that is pleasing to your Lordship, then I am glad to be of whatever service I can,” he said carefully. “However, by brothers and I seek an answer to the quandary of the dragon’s curses, for each one has been calamitous and I would not wish another upon this Age. You, of all the Lords are most learned in this art, for all curses stem from the three most basic, the Curse of Life, the Curse of Want and the Curse of Death. What say you to our predicament?”

Nito rattled his bones in mirth and the skeletons around them rose to join the Gravelord in a rare moment of whimsy. “ **Knight Artorias, your companions have all fought honorably in defeating the Everlasting Dragons, but they are hardy creatures, and it will be difficult to kill one before it can speak its last. Your solution, then, is to not fight honorably, if fighting honorably will lead to more curses.”**

Artorias was taken aback and not a little insulted, but he did not wish to anger the Gravelord in his own domain, so he bowed in thanks and departed the realm of the dead with all haste.

When he returned to his brothers in sun-kissed Anor Londo, only Gough remained in good spirits. He had returned to the causeway and brought back the very bones of Glaurung, in the traditions of his people. With them, the Blacksmith God forged Gough’s armor and a great many arrows, so the Deceiver’s talons could pierce his brethren even in death. Now helmed, the Giant busied himself fashioning a ring of his own as the two smaller Knights debated.

Artorias was firm in his support of the chivalric honor the Knights had stood for thus far. Before the discovery of Gough, had they not been wandering champions of the common folk? Had they not halted the corruption of petty nobles and kept safe the virtue of many a maiden on the roads? Did they not stand for courage, loyalty to Gwyn, as well as their feats of strength and wisdom?

Gough murmured his agreement and Ornstein set about his rebuttal with a small smirk.

All of what Artorias had said was indeed true, but ideals in this case must retreat before reality. For every ballad that sang of Artorias’s brave rescue of Dark Sun Gwyndolyn, so too were there bawdy tales that circulated in the taverns. For all their victories great and small, feats of arms and famous armored figures, there were corners of the realm they had not visited, evils unmet, and the curses of the Everlasting Dragons loomed large over their quest.

Their arguments were interrupted by a knock at the door of their tower and the appearance of a trio of short women clad in blue robes and white porcelain masks. The bowed and spoke as one, voices echoing off the walls of the Knight’s tower.

“Our Lady and Mistress of the Lord Gwyn’s Blades requests your presence tonight at the Court of the Dark Sun. She has much to discuss with you.”

The women bowed and sank back into the shadows, where they disappeared entirely.

_______________________

The Knights of Gwyn arrived at the Court with a certain amount of trepidation and no small amount of suspicion. Dark Sun Gwyndolyn was as courteous as ever but professed no knowledge of Lord Gwyn’s Blades, an ancient and secret society of warriors. As Ornstein spoke with the Lady-Lord of the Moon Court, the other Knights were swarmed by admirers and well-wishers and though Gough shook as many hands as he could and Artorias dodged a great many lady’s favors, they were overwhelmed beneath the tide of well-wishers.

Amidst all the commotion, Artorias spied a small girl garbed in white about to be trampled underneath the crowd of feet. With several swift steps, he spirited her out of the press with all the swiftness and poise of the Wolf. Soon, they were rooms away and Artorias set the girl down with an honest apology for spiriting her away from the fine proceedings of the Night Court.

“Oh, that’s perfectly alright,” said the girl with good cheer. “The Court is normally so empty, but when I heard the Knights of Gwyn would be there, I simply had to see them. There are all sorts of rumors about you, you know. I hardly know what to believe.”

Artorias grinned and allowed himself to relax, even though he was sure Ornstein would doubtless be furious with him. “Well, now I am most curious, Little One. What do they say about us?”

“They say the Lion can travel leagues in a single bound and that you can change the shape of your soul into a wolf. They say that before the Curse of the Giants, Gough actually had a hawk’s eyes put into his head, as they were the only ones that could match his aim. They say you are as honest as the day is long, and Captain Ornstein’s temper is as short as the Furtive Pygmy.” At that, Artorias laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter echoed through the halls, though he was brought up short when he saw the girl scowl. “You are very noisy for a wolf, sir Knight. People do sleep here, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Artorias apologized. “I only found it amusing, the gap between what people think of us and the reality.” The girl’s expression took on a strange quality as she smiled and led him further into the corridors by the hand.

“You will find a great many things in the gaps between what people think and the reality Knight Artorias. Even in Anor Londo.” She gestured towards a door at the end of the hall and the Wolf Knight was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. He realized he had no idea how to return to the Night Court and how very far away he was from his brothers. What’s more, he only had his greatshield, for his sword had fallen into the vast ocean weeks ago and he had been too embarrassed to ask the Blacksmith God for a replacement.

With a deep breath, Artorias calmed himself. Even if this little girl was an enemy of some sort, she barely reached his knee while he had swelled into a Knight of Gwyn three times her size, if not four. His armor would protect him from any danger. He looked down at the girl with more caution than he’d shown before, only to be greeted by a beaming smile. “Come on, silly! I found something nice in that storeroom that Lord Gwyndolyn said you’d want back!”

“You’ve spoken with the Dark Sun before?” asked Artorias, his mind aflame with possibilities.

“Well, I told you the Night Court is normally so empty, I’m one of the few people who show up, so they talk to us sometimes. They craft such wonderful illusions, you know.”

Suddenly the door was in front of him and the girl was underfoot and at the slightest push the Knight of Gwyn toppled forward into the storeroom floor with a crash of armor and the tinkling laughter of the little girl.

The white robe was discarded as Artorias scrambled into a crouch. “I said you were as honest as the day was long, Knight Artorias,” said Lord’s Blade Ciaran, leaning on his sword, “But we’re in the Night Court now.”

_________________________

After a short but embarrassing fight that saw a fully armored knight flipped into the air by a woman a quarter of his size, Artorias reluctantly conceded defeat. While she was short, Ciaran was far from a child. When her father had sought to marry her to one of Allfather Lloyd’s many sons, she fled to Anor Londo and the Night Court. Once there, she had pleaded with the Dark Sun to give her a place to serve Lord Gwyn. After a minor noble had attempted to assassinate Lord Gwyn, he had formed the Lord’s Blades to protect him in ways the Silver Knights could not and Ciaran led them from the very first. As a mark of his esteem the Sunlight Lord had granted her a golden blade that spun with a fragment of his own sunlight, even in the depths of night or the darkest pit. With it she had protected their Lord of Sunlight and had even retrieved Artorias’s own blade from the depths of the ocean.

When he asked her how she had done such a feat, she would only smile a small secret smile, twirl her blade, and say she would tell him one day. As Artorias tested the edge of the blade and found it as unmarred by the sea as the day it was forged, Ciaran imparted her news. Lord’s Blades across the realm had sent crows to her tower, warning of some vast pestilence seeping from the caves beneath Carim and it had driven the nation to its knees. Additionally, not one but two Everlasting Dragons had made their lair in the aeries above Vinheim, drinking deep of the magics Seath had taught the humans, so the Knights of Gwyn had to answer both challenges.

Alone or together, the Knights of Gwyn could not defeat one dragon before news reached its kin and prompted the destruction of one of Gwyn’s kingdoms. Thus, a strategy was formed between the shadowy Lord’s Blades and the the Golden Lion of the Knights. One of the Knights would follow Gough to Vinheim and rally the mages to defeat the nesting dragons, while the other would accompany Ciaran into the depths of Carim and drive out the foul stench of the Everlasting who could only be Pythos the Rotten.

On the division of labors, there was yet more argument and even the eternally patient Gough tired of the bickering as the Knights and the Blades made their way down from Anor Londo and into the Kingdoms of Man. For such tiny warriors, the Blades proved every bit as loud as the Wolf or the Lion. “May Allfather Lloyd protect that poor fool who must ride alongside Ciaran,” he muttered, hidden away beneath his helmet and if his companions heard him, they did not comment.

It was to his great surprise then, that Knight Artorias volunteered to join the Lord’s Blade on the road to Carim, for he had many questions and their meeting had answered but a few. Captain Ornstein was pleasant enough company, so Hawkeye Gough saw no need to complain and they parted in good company. Lady Ciaran, however, had a great many things to complain about, especially the humans who most felt the sting of her golden tracer.

Artorias at first took her blandishments in silence, as he was no longer truly human. But more and more, her Ciaran’s words were just a bit more barbed, just a bit more poisonous, and though a wolf’s fur may protect it from many nettles, even it will snap at an annoying hornet. Now the arguments were interspersed with Artorias’s questions for though he had travelled far and wide in search of the Everlasting Dragons, Ciaran had been to even more places still. She had crossed the sea and seen strange and wondrous beasts beyond description. She had accompanied Princess Filianore to the Ringed City, where the Pygmys dwelt, but when he pressed her for more, she only smiled in a secretive mien and said she would tell him one day.

More and more, the Wolf and the Hornet began to see one another as two sides of Gwyn’s bright crown. One side, wrought in splendor and beauty for all to see and one side functional and plain, its service constant and rarely remarked upon. However, the nature of the split had proved to be uneven, for the much loved Artorias was not especially handsome, but his kindness made him so. In contrast, the Lord’s Blade was a great beauty, though she hid her face behind the porcelain mask of her order, and her voice remained harsh and uncompromising. But little by little as they made their way down to Carim, the southernmost of the Kingdoms and furthest from Gwyn’s sight, they began to understand. In ways both great and small, each left their mark on the other.

They arrived at Carim to find the city emptied and its inhabitants waiting in the outlying towns and much aflutter at the coming of such noble personages. The Duke and Duchess offered their own lodgings to the Knights, but Artorias and Ciaran declined as politely as they could. Artorias was concerned the dragon, hearing of their arrival, would take the initiative and march on the town, causing a great many deaths, while his companion simply was accustomed to sleeping in less comfortable climes. And so, both sat on a high ridge overlooking Carim, as silent and foreboding as Nito’s graveyard while they contemplated the battle to come.

Toxic fog was visible even from this distance as it coiled and swirled around the cave entrances beneath Carim, but while both Knights were mighty indeed, neither would survive the caverns unaided. Ciaran had removed her mask so Artorias saw her slight pout as she spoke. “If we are to have any hope of defeating this beast, Sir Artorias, the most obvious solution is to remove the gases. I myself have used a great many poisons, but a fog like this is beyond my expertise. Look there at the entrance, see how it refuses to dissipate, despite the breeze.”

The wind rustled through the branches of the wilting trees below and caused Ciaran’s hair to drift to the side, which she absently tucked behind her ear. Artorias was beginning to notice things like that, drawn as he was to his companion’s spirit despite all their arguments, but he mastered himself enough to continue. “I have seen nothing like this in my travels, but perhaps…” he trailed off as a thought struck him. “Carim is a treacherous city, is it not?”

“Yes, I have been called here many times to attend to matters for the Lord’s Blades, so I am familiar enough with the city. The caves were never a concern until now.”

“Could there, perhaps, be passages connecting the two?” asked Artorias, hand on his chin as he stared at the rooftops. Sewage drains, hidden escape tunnels, the like?”

“More than can be counted, Sir Knight. Locating the one we need would take weeks, even with my knowledge of the passages and even then, we still might not be close enough to defeat Pythos before his Rot takes us.”

“What if we simply opened all the routes? Gave the toxins so many avenues its influence would be lessened within the caves themselves?”

Ciaran looked impressed as she used Artorias’s bulk to pull herself to her feet. “Would that my sisters had your insight, Sir Artorias. Then even this calamity might be behind us within the week.”

“It still might, if we work together.” The Knight smiled and offered the diminutive woman his free arm, which was nearly half the width of her torso. (This was less to do with Artorias’s size than Ciaran’s petite stature, a fact she would berate him for on many more adventures.) Still, she took his arm in hers, as neatly as any Lady of the Sun Court and slid her mask back upon her helm. “As long as you don’t get underfoot.”

“Now, what was that expression about the pot and the kettle?”

_______________________

The two Knights had taken two score of the citizenry and set them to the task of opening as many of the passages as Ciaran had written down, which proved to be a colossal task. Many of these “volunteers” had a history of thievery and sported the scars or missing hands that screamed their profession, but Ciaran’s quiet words marshalled them as effectively as Captain Ornstein’s barked orders. Still, many of them succumbed to even the weak fumes that reached above into the city and two more fell into the green fog, never to be seen again. Such was the price of war, and they paid it without complaint. 

The Wolf Knight found himself reluctantly impressed as he forced his gauntlets under a wooden trapdoor and put his back into the movement. With a creak and a groan, the wood gave way and flew back to reveal a rectangular hole in the Duke’s bedchamber. The murky greenish-black fog within began to crawl upwards, eager for more space to spread Pythos’s Rot. Artorias moved away with some speed and clambered up to the tallest tower of the palace, where the Lord’s Blade was marking off more and more areas on her map with a feather quill. “Two more, perhaps, and the Rot will have dissipated enough for us to attempt an assault. My thieves are already on the job, and then they will quit the city.”

“So should we, at the rate it’s spreading. I wonder if, perhaps, we are not creating two more problems by solving one?” He couldn’t see her face, but the tilt of her head spoke of curiosity more than skepticism. “Sir Artorias, at this rate, using your brain will become a habit instead of a surprise. By all means, enlighten me.”

Artorias swept his greatsword out across the city before resting it back on his shoulder. “If the fog does not dissipate with the dragon’s death, then we have condemned this city to ruin, even if the people have survived. Even so, your coterie of thieves now has knowledge of the many systems beneath Carim, which will only invite further trouble once we depart.”

“The city is a strictly secondary concern to us, Sir Artorias. Frankly, if they were forced to rebuild in a more favorable clime, I would call it a public service. As for “my” thieves, as if I own them, well, the rise in crime rates should remind the Lord of Carim to pay his taxes more promptly next year, lest I return on a rather more personal mission. If he is still too willfully arrogant to consider this, we shall remind him at the close of our campaign here.”

Artorias planted his weapons in the flagstones and crossed his arms as he glared down at the woman. “I am not here to intimidate a duly elected Lord of Gwyn’s realm. Such duties fall outside the remit of a Knight of Gwyn.”

She didn’t even look up from her map as she replied. “Considering a Lord’s Blade is now one of your number, I believe your duties have now been expanded considerably. Put this aside for now, I would not have our battle fouled by such distracting thoughts.”

Artorias shoved aside his objections and pointed at the descending sun. “Was your intention to use the cover of night as well? Sun or Moon will make no difference in those caves and I would prefer to be well-rested if we yet have the time to choose our approach.”

“Choosing our approach…Perhaps there is some merit in that claim Artorias,” she said softly. Ciaran’s mask was expressionless as the black eyes of her mask locked onto his own soft brown ones. Any further justifications Artorias had built in his mind for the habitually argumentative Lord’s Blade suddenly faded like morning mist. Something rose within his chest, some small spark of his greatened soul, as it fluttered closer to the surface of his being. He reached a hand up to his armor instinctually and started when he saw Ciaran had done the same. She broke their gaze immediately but lingered before striding away without another word. As she departed, Artorias felt the flame within his soul dim once more, returning to its position beneath the surface and felt a mix of relief and regret as his companion departed. Perhaps once he returned to Anor Londo, it would be best to consult with the Princess Gwynevere, if he sought to unravel the mystery of women.

That night, they both began to regret not accepting the Duke’s offer of shelter, but for entirely different reasons. Artorias, despite himself, found the chill of the night only heightened by the winds that swept across their ridge and brought his furs closer to himself, to no avail. He may have been lauded as the Wolf Knight, but he had no fur to speak of. Perhaps the thieves, who had retired to the village below, had the sense of it, despite their dishonor, so he pondered the Gravelord’s words to him on the subject. For her part, Ciaran found her mind restless and fouled by the same distracting thoughts she had warned her companion of several hours earlier. Well, perhaps not the same distracting thoughts… She was surprised to find she now looked upon the Wolf Knight with some affection, perhaps even favor. The long months riding at speed down the countryside, arguing over morality and honor over campfires, had slowly changed into stories of their travels. When he moved suddenly, whether unbalanced by a stone or to catch a falling child gazing at them from a tree, her hand no longer leapt to her weapon. A Lord’s Blade should trust no one, should expect treachery from every corner save the Gods, yet she had come to trust him. Tomorrow, they would put that trust to the test, or die in the attempt.

__________________________

Gwyn’s sun rose to find both his Knights already strapping on their armor and devouring a meagre breakfast. Though they each noticed the other’s exhaustion, neither commented on it. Ciaran, because she thought Artorias would be irritated, and he, because the Hornet often kept odd hours, and Artorias was determined to minimize any “disquieting thoughts”. They travelled down in a companionable silence until they reached the open mouth of the cave, which loomed large enough to accommodate even a being of Artorias’s bulk rather easily. For a while, they stood there, neither Knight wishing to break the silence, but knowing they must, yet fearing the consequences. A soft whine came from the entrance and both Knights readied themselves for battle, only to see a wolf, small and weakened, stumble from the darkness and collapse in front of them.

Artorias, of course, immediately began chanting a tale of Healing, his greatsword held before him, but Ciaran grabbed his hand. “We’re going into battle against an Everlasting Dragon, and you wish to spend valuble energy healing the wildlife? Art thou mad?”

He gave her a disappointed look and sighed. “Art thou blind, to ignore such a portent of Lord Gwyn’s? Thou spent many a moon berating my own wit yet take leave of your own at this late hour? We must see what this wolf can tell us, if it is the omen I suspect.”

The Hornet Knight threw up her hands and stepped back. “My sword for wolves and wyrds! Pythos-“ She was cut off as the wolf opened one eye and growled. Not at her, but rather, at the name. Artorias was continuing his prayer, but she could feel the vindication flowing from the set of his shoulders, though she could not see his face. Ciaran sighed and pulled her mask off as she crouched to look the wolf in its golden eyes. “I must be taking leave of my senses, listening to you.” The wolf was beginning to look more alert as the golden healing magic swirled around its body and it sniffed at her tentatively. “What news have you of Pythos the Rotten, beast? We seek its destruction in the name of Lord Gwyn. Even you must know that name.”

Though its hackles raised at the mention of the Everlasting Dragon, by the time her question was completed, so too was the spell. The beast slowly found its footing and looked down, testing each paw and finding they supported its weight. Immediately it moved to sniff at its rescuer and, upon finding him sufficiently pleasing, nuzzled his kneeling form until Artorias chuckled and straightened up. Both Knights were shocked, however, when the wolf grabbed Ciaran by the scruff of her neck, and bolted into the caves, with Artorias in hot pursuit.

She could have easily ended the creature, but to kill an emblem of her companion, and one he had just revived from near death would bode ill indeed. It would certainly destroy whatever bond was beginning to form between them and Cairan found herself strangely reluctant to do so. So the Lord’s Blade brought her legs up and somersaulted over the wolf’s head until she now rode it down the tunnels. She heard a guffaw of laughter from behind them and looked back to see Artorias somehow keeping pace with the wolf, even with the tremendous burdens of a sword and shield. She blushed furiously behind her mask but pointed imperiously forward. “On then, Omen of Gwyn, bring us to the Everlasting Dragon, so that we might unmake him forevermore!”

The wolf moved through the tunnels, turning away from sheltered passages where the smog still lurked and leaping across gaps in the rocky caverns as they moved deeper and deeper beneath the Earth. Soon, it became so pitch black even the wolf’s eyes could not pick out the walls, though it clearly still knew the way. When Artorias ran headlong into a wall, the wolf finally slowed down to a walk and turned back to lick at the Knight’s helmet, to much sputtering. Ciaran contented herself with a soft smile she was glad her mask yet hid and drew her Golden Tracer. At the sound of the sword, the wolf unceremoniously dumped the Lord’s Blade to the ground and now it was Artorias’s turn to jest, and hers to bandage wounded pride. Still, the fragment of sunlight Lord Gwyn had imbued in the blade provided enough light for them to see.

Artorias hefted his greatshield and took the foremost position, with his companions guarding his back. “A curious sort of sword for an assassin, Lady Ciaran. Would’st thou prefer something more befitting your order? Your tongue alone could slay a score of mortal men, I am sure.” She kicked at his armored thighs, to little effect and with no real heat. “It must be obvious I am Gwyn’s messenger, lest squabbling Lords and corrupt merchants think me some common cutthroat. The masks, this weapon, they all serve as a reminder that Lord Gwyn’s light pierces even the deepest shadows.”

Artorias nodded. “Would that your maxim holds true today, Lady Ciaran. May the Gods be good.”

She repeated the benediction as they moved deeper still, past the bodies of three other wolves scattered across the tunnel in various states of obvious agony. If this was an omen, Gwyn wasn’t being subtle about it. Perhaps the Firstborn, then. Still, neither of the Knights remarked on the corpses and their own wolf only paused a moment at each. In that early Age, even the beasts paid respect to Gravelord Nito.

Finally, they arrived at the resting place of Pythos the Rotten, and he was foul indeed. Great plumes of poisonous dark green gas belched from lips so wide they split his skull nearly in twain. Any skin, fur, or scales it had once possessed had sloughed away long ago, whether from the bolts of Gwyn’s lightning, the Witch’s Fire, or Nito’s disease. The curse of the First Dead labored against the vitality of the Everlasting even as the Knights watched in awe and disgust. Sinew, moss, and a few emaciated muscles shriveled away from yellowed bone even as it sought to cover the dragon anew in strength. Ragged talons scraped gouges in the stone as leathery wings pockmarked full of holes sought to raise Pythos from the earth. However, it was useless. He was too old, too rotten, and too heavy with toxin to fly anymore. He was almost pitiable in his decrepitude, save for his wickedness.

Artorias’s massive shield and sword glowed with a soft silver light as he brought them to bear while Ciaran’s tracer spun enchanting circles around her. The wolf simply bared its teeth, but Pythos only laughed. “At last, the Knights of Gwyn seek me out. I had wondered if Carim would be enough to coax you, but this city is so foul, I could not resist its luxuries.” It sighed as if sinking into a warm bath, but poison fog merely wrapped around its body, hiding the greater part from sight. “Such wickedness and greed, such selfishness and poison, in this city that the ‘Gods’ pretend to protect.” Pythos emitted a crackling laugh similar to Lord Nito’s. “Now, at least, I can destroy one of you before the other ends me. But I wonder,” it said mockingly, with an eternal skeletal grin, “can you kill me, knowing the potency of the curses my brothers have placed upon you already? I am not so sure.”

Ciaran streaked forward in a line of light, twisting aside as rotten claws smashed into the spot she had been about to step into. “Killing you before you curse us should be easy enough. You pretend to be Everlasting, but there are still quite a few less of you than I remember from my youth.” She made to scamper up the dragon’s arm, only to cry out in disgust as Pythos’s form decayed and rebuilt itself around her, threatening to drag her inside the beast if she lost her footing. The dragon spun around, its wings casting great gusts of poison across the cavern, but the mists parted around Artorias’s greatshield effortlessly. He looked down with surprise to find the wolf was crouching behind his greatshield as well, its eyes filled with meaning. Artorias thought about the Lord’s Blade, about Gravelord Nito, and made his decision. _Your solution, then, is to not fight honorably, if fighting honorably will lead to more curses._

He handed his greatsword to the wolf, who stared at it as the massive blade leaned against sleek grey fur. “Whatever manner of creature you may be, I have no doubt your heart is pure despite this foulness,” he said. “Now, take my blade, and guard my Lady. I shall finish the Dragon, no matter the stain to my honor.” Artorias thought of Cairan, thought of that little flicker of his soul that had risen to meet her own, and it responded to his call. With a breath, it was in his hand, then he pressed it into the wolf’s chest with a sigh. He had expected to feel lesser, to feel weakened as he gave part of himself to another creature, but he could still feel his soul, as whole as ever. The wolf blinked, looking as surprised as he felt, then grasped the sword in its teeth and hefted it over its shoulder in a decisive gesture. Artorias strode away from the wolf without a word, heading towards Pythos’s back as Ciaran and the wolf charged its infinitely more dangerous front.

It went against every faces of his being, who he was as a man, as a Knight, but he grasped his shield in both hands and sank its pointed end into the dragon’s rotten haunch. He heard shouts of anger, disgust, then, a yelp that chilled his blood as he saw the blue and gold form of Ciaran’s form fly across the space, trailing gold-flecked blood. Artorias nearly leaped to catch her, abandoning his greatshield, but his soul pulsed in response as the wolf spat his-no, their sword onto the ground and leaped to catch the stunned woman before she collided with the cave wall.

Soon enough Ciaran was once more perched on its back and the sword was cutting away at the Everlasting Dragon, who ignored the minor wounds. It bent to peer at the creature, though how a dragon could see without eyes or a nose was beyond comprehension. “You are a curious little thing,” it grumbled as it reached out with a claw. “You survived my arrival yet returned with these foolish Knights. I wonder how long you will-“

Artorias drove his shield down, shattering the dragon’s spine in an explosion of bone and it snarled as its hindquarters fell away to collapse to the ground. The dragon turned its head again and again, but Artorias was directly behind it, climbing up the rotten spine in its blind spot. Vast wings beat franticly as Pythos, now lightened, lifted from the ground to slam into the rocky ceiling with such force the buildings of Carim far above, shook to their foundations. Artorias was driven down through the dragon’s flesh and into a nest of nightmares.

Ciaran saw silver light flashing in front of her and she frowned behind half her mask. _That wasn’t right. She was supposed to have a full mask, and a golden sword, not half a mask and a silver one._ She came to her senses fully as a massive claw swooped over her head and ducked down reflexively, grasping at- _soft fur_?

A yellow eye glared back at her and the Lord’s Blade came to her senses even as her hands wrapped themselves in the wolf’s fur and a massive greatsword swung up in a diagonal arc to block the second talon. _Sword. Where was her sword?_ The tracer’s golden glimmer was a lantern in the darkness, illuminating the massive rear section of Pythos, which was already beginning to drag itself towards its front half. _Well, she couldn’t have that_. Cairan rolled off Artorias’s wolf smoothly into a running start and ignored the explosion of stone behind her. The dragon’s hindquarters turned, seeing her approach and swung all the way around, spinning its massive tail in her direction. She brought the Golden Tracer up and braced against it with her entire body as the dragon used its own momentum to carve its tail clean off.

Black fluid spouted from the stump of the appendage, leaking all across the floor and turning the rocky floor into treacherous footing. Still, Ciaran saw something glint in the darkness as Pythos turned back to her, roaring in anger and sending a wave of poison towards her, with Artorias’s greatshield nowhere in sight. Knowing it was useless, she charged forward, grasping at whatever glinting thing she’d seen in the light of her Golden Tracer and found her hands wrapping around a bone. She swung upward with both hands and the wave parted cleanly around her without even an eddy in the air.

There was a moment of silence as Pythos and Ciaran stared at one another in astonishment. He spat another wave, then another, and each time her arms rose and fell, dissipating the toxin without effort. With effort, she turned to look at her left hand and gasped. Her Golden Tracer was a fragment of sunlight and its effortless hypnotic movement caught the eye, but the black, bone-encrusted, glistening blade in her hand seemed to absorb the light around it. Small puffs of toxic smoke drifted from the hilt and over her hand harmlessly as she held it up, a wicked grin on her face to match Pythos’s skeletal one. “Thank you for this generous gift, Pythos the Corrupt. I suppose it is only fitting I use it to kill you, after all.”

The blades danced in her hands and Pythos snarled in hatred as she advanced on him. “Foolish assassin, even in victory you steal what was the pride of the Everlasting! Can an Age of Fire be built upon so many corpses and still prosper? Even the Gods must fall in the end.”

Ciaran disappeared from the dragon’s sight, so quick was her movement. She must not allow him to speak another word. One foot launched the petite woman off a corroded claw, the next redirected her off the side of his tenuously connected vertebrae, and the last ascent found her directly behind the dragon’s neck, exactly where Artorias had been. Pockmarked wings made to flap, but Cairan was faster and the swords severed the dragon’s head from his long neck in a single unbroken line. The gold and the black swords hissed as they passed through corruption and physical flesh, each one giving way before the power of two Ages combined.

The instant his head began to fall, the rest of Pythos’ body began to disintegrate and Ciaran slid down the side to gain some distance. But the head was still grinning at her, with fiery eyes and a skeletal grin as it continued to speak. “I curse you-“

A massive greatshield exploded from the disintegrating dragon in a fountain of rot as it came down on the head, over and over. The point of the shield shattered the lower jaw, the heavy center of the shield shattered the horned crown, and a pair of silver boots ended even the possibility of a sentence. Artorias stumbled out of the remnants of the Everlasting Dragon and wrenched his helmet away as the remnants of Cairan’s porcelain mask shattered along with her customary reserve. Why tell him some day, when she could simply tell him now? The Hornet dragged the Wolf down into a kiss and suddenly being covered in dragon guts didn’t seem so horrible.

The wolf was unamused, but they emerged into the sunlight of the late afternoon to a crowd of Carim’s citizens, who shrank back at the truly foul stench emanating from the two Knights. Or perhaps it was the wolf at their side. Nontheless, the rabble melted away to reveal the Duke of Carim, holding an embossed scroll with Gough’s hawk as the signet seal. Ciaran broke it and looked up at Artorias in naked shock.

“Captain Ornstein has fallen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up being wayyyyy longer than the others because I had the dangerous delusion that I could write any kind of slowly developing romance, so tell me if it's any good. (I doubt it) Technically the girl kissing the guy doesn't happen much in these fairy tales, which were supposed to promote things like feminine obedience, loyalty, and other such dreck, but it's Dark Souls. Hideous suffering is allotted to both genders, why not some scattered happiness as well?
> 
> On the story front, this chapter allowed me to use two classic tropes, the King Incognito, where there is a secret test of character, and the Mystical Animal Guide, who aids the heroes in their quest. Of course, Gwyn may or may not actually have sent the wolf (three guesses who they are and the first two don't count) but the idea fits in with the Mythic aspect of the story. Additionally I was going to have Pythos be really rotting, covered in maggots and such, but then I kicked myself and remembered Miyazaki's quote in DS 1 about "the majesty of a great beast slowly decaying" and tried to let some of that come across in the description. Pythos's curse was going to reanimate ALL the Everlasting Dragons as Undead Dragons we see in the Valley of the Drakes and Painted World, but that didn't go through, so the two words of his curse only created the two we see in DS 1.
> 
> This story's probably going to have more than six chapters, depending on how things play out in the next chapter, so sorry for messing up your expectations.

**Author's Note:**

> Full confession, I wrote this because I love writing in the Mythic, Old Language style a la Tolkien and thought the Four Knights of Gwyn deserved some love.


End file.
